fKlC3 




CANDLES IN 

THE SUN 

By WILLIAM GRIFFITH 




Book- ' 

Copyright If 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



The Little Bookfellow Series 



Candles in the Sun 



Other titles in this series: 

Estrays. Poems by Thomas Kennedy, George Seymour, 
Vincent Starrett, and Basil Thompson. 

William De Morgan, a Post-Victorian Realist, by Flora 
Warren Seymour. 

Lyrics, by Laura Blackburn. 

Stevenson at Manasquan, by Charlotte Eaton. 



GandL ,„ Ae Sun 



^ 



William Griffith 




Chicaao 
Whe [Qookfellotvj 



Grateful acknoivledg ement is made to the 
various magazines and other publications, 
in which some of these poems originally 
appeared, for permission to include them 
in this volume. Among them are The 
Century, McClure's, Smart Set, Ainslee's, 
Ladies' Home Journal, The Double Dealer, 
All's W ell, Judge and the New York Sun. 






c\ Z I 



Copyright 1921 
by Flora Warren Seymour 



DEC 27 '21 

©CU630944 



THE TORCH PRESS 
CEDAR RAPIDS 
IOWA 



*W^ 



AT THE DOOR 

Here at the door are beacon fires to build, 

Dreams to be dreamt, and voices — voices stilled 

As Eden darkly was ere the first bird 
In the ancestral silences was heard. 

And here are songs, midway in homing flight, 
That hover on frail pinions and alight 

Softly, less audibly than is the quake 

Of spirits tremulous, or hearts that break, 
Here at the door. 

Here at the door are many messages 

Of cheer and lurking faith — a folded kiss, 

A sealed desire, a sigh, a memory 

Of things that were as rainfall on the sea. 

Thronging are shapes and shadows near at hand 
Cast by the moon upon an April land. 

And in the air are rumors and the stir 
Of meetings and long partings to occur, 
Here at the door. 



CONTENTS 

At The Door 5 

The House of the Sphinx n 

Wayfarers 21 

Origins 24 

How Shall the Ant Spend the Night? . . 26 

Communion 28 

Elsewhere 30 

Adelina Patti 32 

Spring Blew Open the Door .... 34 

Up the Hudson 36 

Tramping 37 

The Year is Changing Its Name ... 43 

A Brief for the Bird 45 

Reverie 47 

Novitiate 49 

Gangs 53 

On Using the Sun and Moon .... 54 

Choirs and Orchestras 57 

A Vendor of Visions 58 

Millenium 59 

Stuff of Dreams 59 

Apocalypse 60 

Ballade in Search of Truth . . . . 60 

Adrift 62 

A Poet Shuts the Book of Dreams ... 62 

7 



Aloha 67 

A Ship Comes in 68 

Loon Lake 69 

Questionnaire 69 

Train Lost 70 

Before the Pixies Came to America ... 73 

View-Halloo 88 



THE HOUSE OF THE SPHINX 

FOR 

Edwin Arlington Robinson 

Cast by the White Sun in 

your rhyme, 
Falls a Black Shadow. What's 

the time? 



THE HOUSE OF THE SPHINX 

I think there never was a dwelling place 
So strangely like a human face 
Reflected in a stream, 
Or dim day-dream. 

Small wonder that the chores are never done 
On drowsy mornings when the sun 
Is sleeping on the hill, 
So warm and still. 

Heavy with slumber, crimson poppies nod, 
And phantom tenants slowly plod 
On their monotonous way 
From day to day, 

Reluctantly remaining to explore 
The corridors from door to door, 
As though a wonderland 
Were near at hand. 

Daily the changing faces idle through 
The galleries, in ghostly view 
Of tapestries on high, 
That drape the sky. 

Temples and towers and snowy summits glow 
Above the rivers far below, 
As placid as a psalm, 
In woven calm. 

ii 



Then darkness falls and deepens on the world, 
And under driving thunders whirled, 
The cowed and gnashing main 
Subsides again. 

Such views are woven in the tapestries 
As plainly as the changing skies, 
Or goblins that amaze 
The childish gaze. 

And some divine, beyond the seeming thrall, 
A vision glorifying all 
The miracles the wise 
Appear to prize. 

Rejoicing, sorrowing or full of hope, 
So many studiously grope 
In search of hidden lore, 
Forevermore. 

They brood and sigh and have despairing ways 
On gravely reckoning the days 
Are growing few and brief, 
Beyond belief. 

Vast calls and silences in everything. 
O vernal voices fain to sing 
Of joys remote and strange, 
Beyond the range 

Of human utterance! They say there are 
Dear forms and faces waiting far 
In latitudes above 
The will of love. 

12 



Nor wholly fabulous the thing appears, 
When it is but these forty years 
Since millions of them came 
With face and name. 

They idle by my windows in the sun, 
As cronies evermore have done 
On mornings soft and warm, 
And teem and swarm. 

Every arrival reticently bears 
The same mortality, and wears 
A cowl, as though afraid 
The masquerade 

Were ineffectual or otherwise 
Bewildering successive eyes 
With revelations more 
Revered of yore. 

Day after day upon my sunny view 
Apparently so very few 
Are eager to intrude 
On solitude. 

Anon with cares and labors put aside, 
They laze and loiter and abide, 
As though the time they spend 
Would never end. 

They sometimes bow with reverence and seem 
As vague as shadows in a dream; 
And never are the same 
As when they came. 

13 



Age follows age while men and women strive 
Against the multitude and thrive, 
Or wander from the quest, 
As may be best. 

They have tribunals and such laws that one 
May go his way with duty done, 
Or with remorseful end, 
Nor comprehend. 

So often a unanimous appeal 
Appears in faces that reveal 
A mystery as deep 
As death or sleep. 

Abundant riches now and then are found 
Occultly hidden underground: 
And life and love are sold 
For gear and gold: 

And time is spent in search of something all 
My fellows realize and call 
By such and such a name 
As Hope and Fame. 

They fall and rise and fall and rise again 
In triumph and command ; and then, 
Without a word to say, 
They go their way. 

Amazing and bewildering and strange 
Beyond all reason is the change 
With which a dream in view 
Is coming true. 

14 



They say the house is haunted by a ghost. 
Or is it but some wizard Host 
Who watches at the door, 
As though the score 

Had ever been ignored by any chance? 
Nothing escapes the searching glance 
With which He levies toll 
On every soul. 

Divine reports and messages obscure, 
Bearing a secret signature, 
Are written in the grass 
For those who pass. 

And rare desires and memories and fears, 
And dreams as radiant as tears, 
Are woven in the frieze 
And tapestries. 

At times the shuttles thunder, and the loom 
Spins darkness and appalling gloom 
That ravel out again 
In mist and rain. 

Something discloses the identical 
Dim dream made manifest in all 
The faces with the wise, 
Sad human eyes. 

O burning eyes! O ghostly passions! Charred 
Desires that smoulder ashenward ! 
O haunting phoenix of 
Enduring love! 

15 



Albeit shapes in legion range the place, 
On their departure not a trace 
Does wall or door disclose 
Of where one goes. 

Death in the distance, like a hunted thing, 
Stifles a cry more harrowing 
Than bells that harshly toll 
Rest to a soul. 

It is as daft and dismal as the moan 
Or as the sobbing of some lone 
Unfathomable sea, 
Alluring me 

Away from flower and fellow — day and night 
Urging and mastering despite 
The most unyielding lust 
Born of the dust. 

Yet is it death? Can such an empty sound 
As that come from the air or ground? 
Or such a vacant cry 
Fall from the sky ? 

Can death be other than a phantom fear? 
And that cry on the inner ear 
Be but a ghostly word 
Unsaid, unheard ? 

Still is time pleading with eternity, 
Bidding hope stay though all else flee; 
Saying that naught is vain 
If love remain. 

16 



So when the summons comes for one to stray 
Beyond this residence of clay, 
Since mortals must explore 
From door to door, 

On some soft evening may a gradual voice 
Bid waif and wanderer rejoice 
In the green fire . . and call 
For each and all. 

By the dim ways of dream the wandering breeze 
Shall come with tidings from the seas, 
And secrets from the rose 
That may disclose 

The vast infinitude wherein must be 
Once more a hazy memory 
Of glimmering chambers trod 
Alone with God. 



17 



LYRICS AND ELEGIES 



FOR 

David Morton 



Ships in Harbor you have 

hailed, 
That around the Horn have 

sailed. 



WAYFARERS 

Rarely are roving eyes to see 
A caravansary 
Or home 
Of starry dome 

So filled as this with open doors 
And windows — and with floors 
So green, 
Wind-swept and clean. 

As though life were a holiday, 
Sojourners on the way 
Carouse, 
While God keeps house. 

With wooing, wizardry and song, 
They cheer themselves along, 
Until, 
By starry will, 

Wayfaring in the phantom mime, 
The nomads slowly climb 
The stair, 
And slumber — where ? 

Daily arriving it has been 
For them to enter in, 
And then 
Depart again. 

21 



Genial and garrulous are some, 
Or wondering and dumb, 
With wise, 
Inquiring eyes. 

Searching are others who would find 
Hopes that were left behind, 
And died 
By the wayside. 

Amazing voices sigh and call, 
As if divining all 
Must be 
A mystery. 

O winds in secret that confer 
And bid the aspen stir, 
Whence goes 
Or comes the rose? 

Its fragrance with what pain and care 
Is woven of the air? 
Its hue 
Of dawn and dew? 

Of such things vernal voices say 
Wayfaring mortals may 
Return 
To sleep and learn. 

Oblivion is in the chill 
Monotony: and still 
Does tide 
Nor time abide. 

22 



So healing are the silences! 
Tranquillity and peace 
So sure ! 
Endure, endure! 

As buds, afar, ere reaching spring, 
Pine for the air and cling 
A-thrill 
From hill to hill, 

So many wanderers and boon 
Companions very soon 
Attend 
The gradual end. 

Dusty with dream since time began, 
The ghostly caravan 
Moves on 
From dawn to dawn. 

Free but in liberty to stray, 
As though no trodden way 
Or trail 
Could well avail, 

Nearing a silver beacon light, 
In guerdon of a night 
Abroad, 
Far on the road, 

Crossing the frontier very quietly 

May a spent fugitive have leave to flee 
The tyrannizing sea 
And shore — 
At Home once more. 

23 



ORIGINS 

Beginning with Lilith and Eve, there have 
been two classes of women — those who have 
taken the strength out of men, and those who 
have put it back. — Proverb. 

Into a dark world of strange talk 

Came a soft voice, 

As that of a bird 

Lulling forest and fen. 

And then, 

Stirred 

By a word 

That bade him rejoice 

And rise and walk, 

Adam awoke, 

Spoke, 

Listened awhile 

For an answering call, 

As a great silence fell over all. 

Brooding and serious, 

Something mysterious 

On him was casting the shadow of pain 

When, with a vain 

Curious smile, 

(A sigh of the eye), 

As a siren went by, 

The first of men shuddered, 

Turned over and over 

In thistle and clover, 

And slept again: 

And dreamt of Lilith! 

24 



Darker and stranger grew the world, 

Fig leaves were shed, 

And serpents curled. 

And overnight 

Was born delight; 

And overday 

Was born desire, 

To curb dismay 

Lest Adam tire. 

The skies were red ; 

And all the glory 

Of time in story 

Suddenly flashed, 

And thunder crashed ; 

And under the vine and fig-tree there, 

Gowned and crowned with her radiant hair, 

And frail as fire and free as the air, 

And fair as her daughters have sought to be fair, 

A woman stood 

In virginhood. 

Over the grass 

It came to pass 

That her eyes spoke . . . 

So sweet was she 

To hear and see, 

So virginwise, 

That from his eyes 

And body then 

The scales had all but fallen when 

Adam awoke. 

Eden and Eve! 



25 



HOW SHALL THE ANT SPEND THE NIGHT 

How shall the ant spend the night, 

The last night of all ? 

Or the bee, or the bird, 

Whose song was a prayer hardly heeded or heard? 

Or the serpents that crawl, 

Panic-stricken of light? 

Or the soaring untameable things 

That have wings? 

Shall they fall, 

Or abide? 

Shall they hide 

In the skull . . in the husk 

Of the bat-haunted void . . in the dusk 

That is falling like fine 

Sifted ashes on that which has strangely been yours or 

been mine? 
Shall the tomb 
Be a quickening womb? 
Or worms be the anchoret ivies that twine 
In the hair of a friend, 
Loved and lost, 
At what cost, 
In the end? 

Answer and say, 

As one may, 

That the riddle is slight. 

But in sight 

Of the ultimate day, 

On the eve of the night, 

26 



Shall the jungles be gay? 

Shall they thrill at the stem? 

Shall the roar in them be one of fright, 

And the trumpeting thunders in them 

Be a plea for the light 

Fading out of the sky? 

Lo the stars that were once traveled by, 

Shall they yet flicker high, 

Blown by winds, each of them but the sigh 

And regret of a god? 

Or shall heavily nod 

Every head, 

Weighted down by the ominous dread ? 

Having loved, having died 

Glorified, 

Shall man, on the anvil, have quailed 

At the frost in the fire? 

Nay? 

Sigh then nor say, 

Nor complain 

Of the punctual warning of pain 

Foretelling decay. 

Nor deny 

To the valorous spirit of clay 

Such courage as they, 

Of the luminous kind, 

Have and hold 

In such measure today 

As thrilled and made martyrs of old. 

Aglow 

On the radiant rolls of the humbly renowned 

27 



Are records that kindle and show 

The shadowy glimmering way 

Of the quick and the dead, 

Of whom none to the dark shall be wholly resigned, 

Though the last spark of hope 

To be found, 

Should be ashen — and nothing have scope, 

Or escape from the doom of desire 

For the light that had failed, 

In a world gone to bed. 



COMMUNION 

Fire 

And frenzy not kindled by wine, 

Nor a fervently fine 

Inappeasable hunger for bread, 

On the eucharist spread, 

Have austerely been mine 

To acquire 

Or divine. 

And whether to have less or more 

Of spirit and passion to spend, 

Or hazard and toss 

For a sovereign gain or a loss ; 

Yea, 

Whether to pay 

And be saved, 

Or decline, 

On the plea of the cost, 

And be lost; 

28 



Who shall say 

With what heaven and hell may be paved, 

Or which may be which, 

In the end? 

So it seems , 

O comrade! O friend! 

That a soul, being rich 

In so little that Dives esteems, 

May but share with you this cup of dreams. 

Joy 

May be never again 

As ecstatic and human and keen 

As the stealthy recurrence of pain. 

Nor the same ghosts be seen 

By the man as were plain 

To the boy. 

Nor, alas! 

As the swift seasons pass, 

And Summer goes by 

With thunder and sigh, 

May the bugles of Autumn be blown 

And rally the world as of yore; 

Or Winter atone 

For the leaves that no more, 

In a trance, 

Thrill with wonder and sing 

And with witchery dance 

To the mad marching music of Spring. 

Bliss 

And beauty endure, 

And may peace be as sure, 

29 



And the slope 

May it slowly descend ! 

So it is, 

As it has been for long, 

O comrade! O friend! 

That a soul, being poor 

As Lazarus j saving in hope, 

May but break with you this bread of so?ig. 



ELSEWHERE 

Beauty today lost a friend. 

Who is said to have died. 

Fading out of the world 

As a petal is curled; 

Or gone, it were better to say, 

Elsewhere. 

But softly! 

Attend: 

Something luminous, something she shed, 

Goes on burning elsewhere; 

And the luminous way that she led 

Goes on leading elsewhere. 

Lo, 

The dolor of dread 

And the canker of care 

She has taken elsewhere. 

Can such valiance be dead? 

Surely 

No! 

30 



Kindled purely, 

Such fuel of spirit, as made her so fair 

Over here, 

Must lighten the air 

Over there, 

In a region so near, 

Yet so far, 

That no grass may be seen 

To be green, 

No rose to have color — no star 

Any radiance save as a tear 

In the all-seeing Eye of all eyes, 

Under starrier skies. 

Fading faintly she fled, 

As haply a tree 

May flee; 

Or a leaf 

Blown free, 

Lightly shedding the fetters of grief 

At the will of the wind. 

And the slow, 

Autumn- thinned 

Life in leaves being so, 

May the coming and going of death 

Be more than a rumor — than taking a breath ? 

Than a sin 

Unsinned ? 

Or a tear 

Unshed ? 

Or a thin 

Phantom fear? 

31 



Or the dread 

Of the last speech of all that remains to be said ? 

A friend of the world. 

Who has died 

As a pennon is furled, 

Has gone, it were better to say, 

In a clarion word, 

To be cried 

And be cheerily heard, 

Elsewhere. 



ADELINA PATTI 

Her passing is as the 

passing of a voice from 

the April world. — Daily Press. 

Ah, 

Has this woman 

Been nothing more to us 

Than a brief bird-song 

Heard in the forest? 

Has she been nothing 

Other than fancy 

Fire or the glimpses 

Of things that vanish 

Wholly 

And perish? 

Dimmed as a memory 

Now, 

Has she never 

32 



Been any nearer 

April and glory, 

Lord, 

Than a vesper 

Thrush in the forest ? 
i 

Surely 
The poppy 

Songs that she lavished, 
Petal by petal, 
On us like largess, 
Had the dream in them 
Such as despairing 
Angels and mortals 
Find in the aching 
Solace of beauty! 

Lord, 

Of the lightning 
And of the crashing 
Thunders that bellow, 
Rending the darkness, 
Has she not taken 
Fugitive, trailing 
Echoes and made them 
Shadows of luminous 
Love and of longing? 

Surely 

Such rapturous, 

Ravishing witchery 

As she so perfectly 

Veiled 

33 



Was the vision 
Of something virginal, 
Woven of wonder 
At the first daybreak 
And the first timid 
Voice in the startled 
Star-world of silence ! 

Birdwise 

She tarried, 

Then swiftly went from us, 

Even as fugitive 

Shapes and their shadows 

Fade in the darkness; 

Even as luminous 

Tear trails of tempests 

End in the rainbow; 

Aye, 

As all beauty 

Plas goals of glory, 

And as all glory 

Sounding but passes 

Into the infinite 

Night and the silence. 



SPRING BLEW OPEN THE DOOR 

Spring blew open the door ; 

An aspen stirred 

And turned about, 

As if in doubt 

Of the time of day, 

34 



Or so they say ; 

And all of a sudden was something heard 

That rose from a sigh to a ghostly shout, 

As now and again 

In a panic the rain 

Went scurrying over the forest floor. 

A bud came out — 

And then a bird. 

Spring blew open the door ; 

On a nearby hill 

A robin found 

A place in the sun, 

And all in fun 

Made a rollicking sound 

That was less than a call 

And more than a trill, 

Sinking low and lower, 

And then was still. 

On all, on all 

Was the dawning grace 

Of a radiant face 

And a presence rare 

As the shadowy things 

That out of the air 

A dryad weaves. 

A rustle of leaves, 

A flutter of wings, 

A heavenly stir 

In the lilac tree — 

And a rogue of a bee 

Caught sight of Her. 

35 



UP THE HUDSON 

I was sailing up the Hudson, 

And beside me went along 
Joy whose eyes were full of wonder, 

And whose throat was full of song. 

And the hills were passing visions 
As the singing hours went by ; 

And we came upon a mountain 
That arose and kissed the sky. 

Then a hill fell to a valley, 
And a brook became a rill ; 

And the Catskills in the distance 
Had a duty to fulfill. 

Urchins diving in the twilight 
At Pokeepsie swam around 

As the great boat left its mooring, 

Swinging out and northward bound 

Riverwise to reach a passage 
Such as vagrants sail and find 

Only in the quest of beauty, 
And to other goals are blind. 

By the moon we were transported 
To a place I Know Not Where, 

And we went ashore together 
Stepping lightly on the air. 

And we came to the conclusion 
That as long as we could burn 

At both ends a pixie candle, 
We had better not return. 

36 



TRAMPING 

My Host the parting guest bids speed, 
Who, in wayfaring, does but need 
Rest and a little ease of heart, 
And then is ready to depart. 

Rounding a bend in the highway may one 
Loaf with his shadow and share the sun. 

Spending a morning and hearing a bird 
Voice what the gypsies of Babylon heard. 

Up and away from the wants and the cares 
In the aching and hollow thoroughfares, 

Never are air and the dew and the grass 
Weary of bidding one whistle and pass 

Over the bridges, out through the broad 
Gates of the Summer and down the road. 

Singing above in the branches, a gay 
Voice hurries over the silence to say 

Leisure and time and the varying mood 
Are waiting beyond in the solitude. 

Solvent as oafs having only the need 
To follow wherever the road may lead; 

Riches abound and the meagerest crust 
Is enough for a prince and a pauper who must 

Fellow and fare with the daffodils 

On the myriad trail of a thousand hills. 

37 



Over the miles with the coming of dawn, 
Morning and evening journeying on, 

Drunken with rapture and eager to gaze 
Over the rolling and billowy maize. 

Blithely foreseeing a pause at the spring, 
Finding and taking fresh heart to sing, 

Because of the bracing and vital and rude 
Freedom and joy in the solitude. 

Ever a song and a sorrow, and still 

A hope that beckons from hill to hill — 

Alluring and smiling and vanishing down 
The shadowy miles so cool and brown. 

Thrilled by a rivulet chanting a rune 
Through the meadowy summer afternoon, 

When the fumes are heavy and purple and sweet, 
Over the way in the ripening wheat. 

This is the meed and the need of a boy 
On the trail of a vagrant and vanishing joy, 

When the sun and the air, by a natural whim, 
Are wishing and willing to welcome him. 

Turning and wandering home with the gay 
Little leaves at the close of a summer day, 

When all is a sob and a sigh and a call, 
Before the imperial coming of Fall. 

Heavy at heart when the wind and the rain, 
Sudden as regiments, sweep through the plain, 

38 



Wheeling and veering and breaking to run 
Out of the shadow and into the sun. 

Pausing and hearing the garrulous leaves 
Gossiping under the heavenly eaves; 

Way-worn with wonder and drowsily bent 
On sharing the same commodious tent 

Of darkness starrily pitched in sight 
Of the wandering waters of delight. 



39 



SPORES 

FOR 

The Flushing Garden Club 

They who make Gardens grow are,, 

in their duty, 
Sunwise and moonwise and starwise 

to Beauty. 



THE YEAR IS CHANGING ITS NAME 

The year is changing its name 

From April to May; 

And today 

An oriole came, 

And was heard to declare 

That the sun 

And the air 

And the showers 

Were each in their pastoral way 

Resolving to cling 

To the reverent custom of placing the flowers, 

One by one, 

On the altar of Spring. 

Everything 

Is aflush and aglow. 

Even though 

The time and the season too tardily come 

For the partridge to drum, 

Or for such sleepy heads 

As the poppies to turn 

In their spare seedy beds, 

The tulips are torches beginning to burn 

And illumine the land, 

Being blown to a flame 

By many a breeze that is wafting a wand, 

43 



And casting a spell, 

Coming breathless to tell 

The fabulous story 

Of some morning-glory, 

And recount the green miracles such as the rain 

In the grass, 

Again, 

Is bringing to pass. 

Oh, 

The tender green way 

In which summer is born! 

First for an hour, 

Then for a day, 

Flower follows flower, 

After a bird. 

Suddenly finding a forest forlorn, 

Something in nature is secretly stirred, 

And the shy things are all in a hurry to grow. 

Row upon row 

The hedges are robing in green. 

Behold, 

How plainly the lilacs are seen 

To quiver and thrill, 

In response to the touch 

Of invisible fingers beginning to clutch 

At the heart of the world. 

And the valor of daisies is being narrated 

Once more and awaited 

As that of a weed, 

In a moment of need, 

44 



Coming bravely with pennons unfurled 

And still, 

As of old, 

Are dandelions paving the meadows with gold. 

Only are lovers to know, 

In this ancient year, 

Of the spirit of mirth 

Again finding birth 

In the glow 

And the shout and the cheer, 

Rising out of the earth? 

A BRIEF FOR THE BIRD 
God, 

Being weary of chaos, and shaping the spheres, 

Was beginning to nod ; 

And thinking of music! to lighten the toil 

Of making a world out of thunder and tears, 

Created a bird, 

And gave it so much as a spare barren branch 

Whereon to be free 

And blazon the glee 

Of a wild feathered thing 

That would sing 

Of the lost heavens sought by the breeze, 

And hidden in trees. 

Presently shaken 

By thunder, and stirred 

By the wind of His word, 

Leaf after leaf 

Began to awaken, 

45 



Then to appear 

And cast a cool shadow — a ladle 

Of shade 

For a tear 

Freshly laid 

In the song that the world in its cradle 

First heard. 

And the world, being rocked, 

Fell asleep; 

And saw in a dream 

That beauty in sound 

Was heaven refound; 

And beauty in hue 

Was a dream coming true; 

And beauty in truth 

Was a vision for angels and mortals to deem 

As a Spirit of Treasure to covet and keep 

In trust, 

Beyond rust, 

Beyond ruth, 

In vaults strangely guarded and locked. 

Vast 

And veiled in the nickering present and vanishing past, 

Is the wonder that hardly a word 

Of esteem, 

Deserved of all men and of all that they dream, 

In silences broken, 

Sung yet or yet spoken, 

Has plainly been heard 

By the bird. 

4 6 



REVERIE 

To Cecilia 

In a world that has no end, 
Fancy free us, little friend. 

Let us idle to and fro 

In the Land of Thus-and-So. 

Others on a rock may build 
Castles for the sun to gild. 

Ours are more or less than grand, 
Being built on dreams and sand. 

Others having scope and range, 
Sing the ringing round of change. 

Lost in wonder, it may thrill 
Time to find us standing still. 

What have we to do or say 

To an old world turning gray! 

Simple bodies, you and I 
Wonder what supports the sky. 

Wonder why no splashing sound 
Follows when the earth turns round. 

Wonder what is overheard 

By the trout and bee and bird. — 

47 



Or what forces, tame or wild, 
Draw the lion to the child. — 

Wonder at most everything 
Taking root or on the wing. 

Of a truth and strange to tell, 
Wonder is a waking spell 

Cast on those who feel and find 
Beauty much as do the blind; 

Groping here and searching there, 
Tracing beauty everywhere — 

Beauty that would never hide, 
Were it never crucified. 

Fancy any evil worse 
Than a ghoulish universe! 

Or a more praiseworthy sight 
Than the Milky Way at night ! 

Than the ages hour by hour 
Shaping petals in a flower! 

In a world that has no end, 
Cherish beauty, little friend. 



4 8 



NOVITIATE 

Hardly a hermit thrush had stirred, 
Nor yet from any ghostly bole 

In all the garden had been heard 
A rumor of the oriole. 

Telling the roses one by one, 

Grey as a Beadsman were the skies. 
In ashes sifting from the sun 

Were the stray ruins of butterflies. 

And with a rosy sisterhood 

Of blossoms dreaming in the dawn, 

Demurely nodded one that stood 
Behind a dewy curtain drawn. 

Daydreams she dreamt and never gazed 

Beyond the curtain, it is told, 
Until the Twilight came and raised 
A wondering little face of gold. 

Who knows ? Was Beauty in disgrace 
Thrilling the garden with a smile, 

Shy as a flower-saint fain to face 

The darkness for a little while ? — 

Fleeing perhaps a nunnery 

Of roses very softly furled, 
Confessing a desire to see 

The wonders of the garden world ? — 

And strangely though the seasons pass, 
To know the clemency of pain, 

The tribulation of the grass, 
The tender mercy of the rain? 

49 



PROTEST AND ABANDON 



FOR 

O. Henry 



Who has gone on his infinite way. 
Turning Night into Day. 



GANGS 

A hobo medley to the accompaniment 
of an abandoned banjo upon a spirit 
highway. A. D. IQIQ. 

My gang has a soul 

As good as gold ; 

And though bankrupt on the whole, 

Is bought nor sold. 

My gang dares to dream, 

Love and dream as well as scheme, 

And to frown upon a crown ; 

Dares to scoff at rule and line, 

Deeming derelicts divine, 

Or to bid the world go hang. 

Twang, twang! 
I'd be lost in your gang; 
Come and join mine. 

My gang now and then 

Has gone astray; 

Yet is filled with wonder when 

Pharisees pray. 

My gang is an oaf, 

Such an oaf as dares to loaf, 

And acquit a hypocrite, 

Or to freeze and drink the lees 

53 



Of the warming tavern wine, 
That has such a human tang. 

Twang, twang! 
I'd be dry in your gang; 
Come and join mine. 

My gang never took 

Fright at disgrace; 

Nor has been afraid to look 

Life in the face. 

My gang dares to sin, 

And to grin through thick and thin, 

Or to kiss and call it bliss; 

Dares to live a fugitive 

In the forests that entwine 

Bird and bee and flower and fang. 

Twang, twang! 
I'd be found in your gang; 
Come and join mine. 



ON USING THE SUN AND MOON 

Using the sun, 
City, O city 
Chary of pity, 
What have you done ? 
What visions fashioned, 
What day-dreams spun? 
What have you gloried in, 
Worshiped, devised, 
Sought and, in seeking, found 

54 



Most to be prized 
As a delight, 
Since only yesternight, 
Using the sun? 

Staring with tearless eyes, 

Dimmed by no ghostly dread 

Lest what Belshazzar read 

Darken the sun, 

Think of its being 

Warmer than charity, 

And of no cost! 

Daily from Ophirs of luminous ore 

Giving until it can give nothing more 

Unto a city 

Bent on despoiling 

So much, and soiling 

Beauty — and toiling 

Unto what tranquil or thunderous end? 

Say to what end ! 

Using the moon, 

O dark queen city, 

Over whose head is thrown 

Veiled silver loveliness; 

Under whose feet are spread 

Thistles and thorns to tread ; 

What of the burgeoning 

Lilies of love? 

What of the few 

Dreams that come true? 

Why, 

' 55 



Over you, 

Are no birds in the sky? 

Why are the trees all too willing to die ? 

Why rage and revel so plainly, 

Though vainly, 

To stifle a sigh, 

O dark queen city 

Using the moon? 

With all your million eyes 

Gaze at the moon ! 

Think of its being 

Colder than charity, 

Vestal and veiled! 

Is it because 

Churches and laws, 

Judges and teachers, 

Some of them kindly, 

Still groping blindly, 

Tarnish the vision 

Of Love and blur 

All that in all your imperious dreaming 

Is dreamt of Her? 

What of the loneliness, 

What of the pride, 

God ! of the many times 

Love must have died, 

Shrinking from pity, 

In this one city 

Using the moon ? 



56 



CHOIRS AND ORCHESTRAS 

Glory aglee, a symphony 

Is finely being sounded 
By flutes and horns and violins, 

And drums divinely pounded. 

This is a hall wherein we all 

Are music-loving people. 
And next door is an austere church 

Topped by an austere steeple. 

Next door a few have each a pew, 
For which they must be paying; 

And I am one and you are two 

Who wish them well in praying : — 

Who wish them well the while they tell 

Each other what a pity 
That you and I are sinners in 

A very wicked city. 

Our orchestra plays do, sol, la, 
As though the heart of beauty 

Had not been broken long ago 
By devotees of duty. 

It plays and plays and, as the days 

Go on, it is a wonder 
That church mice, stealing all about, 

Steal nothing of our thunder. 

Is it because our music laws 

Have made us too quick-witted 

57 



To think to go where only great 
Composers are admitted? 

First violin has ever been 
For most of us a riddle ; 

And since we all may not play first, 
Heigh-ho for second fiddle. 



A VENDOR OF VISIONS 

There is a tall fine fellow 

Who makes the days go through, 

Who hardly casts a shadow, 
Bearing a ghostly brew. 

They call him a bootlegger, 

A Jew whom the Gentiles prod 

For selling dreams and visions, 
Courage to drowse and nod ; — 

Courage to search for beauty, 
So strangely out of place 

In haunts of waifs and wastrels 
Spent and forlorn of grace. 

Daydreaming to discover 
How beauty is distilled, 

They lose themselves in wonder 
That so few cups are filled. 

Yet brimming vats of vision 
Has this tall fellow brought, 

58 



Seas of fine fancies breaking 
On sandy shores of thought. 

He is a sort of victor 

To be conquered in the end. 
Drink! that it may not find him 

Dry — and a cheated friend. 



MILLENIUM 

It may have come and may have gone, 

Be ages overdue, 
Or yet be just about to dawn, 

Like something new 

In a world waiting for the day 
When a man shall cease to shirk, 

And sighing on his way to play, 
Singing go to work. 



STUFF OF DREAMS 

Coins of silver did I take 
To the vintner — and was sold 
Stuff of dreams wherewith to make 
Some odd poems : which I hold 
Was a bargain. 

Soon it brought me very near, 
Mothwise, to a silver star 
By which vagrant spirits steer ; 

59 



And it lured me very far 
On my voyage. 

Gave me silver seas to sing, 
Hopes to build a raft of song, 

To which derelicts may cling 

In my wake, as to a long 

Silver shadow. 



APOCALYPSE 

Prison! There is a challenge, 
A bugle, a gun in the word. 

Caged ! Oh, what hells of fury 
Stifle a bird ! 

Escape ! At a signal the senses 

Stir and start to explore. 
Free ! Oh, what heavens of wonder, 

Shore beyond shore! 



BALLADE IN SEARCH OF TRUTH 

Man consists in Truth. If he reveals 
Truth, he reveals himself. If he be- 
trays Truth, he betrays himself. — Novalis. 

Searching through life for something gay, 
Something that might be shorn of pain, 

They, in this world of work-a-day, 

Strange chaff winnow from stranger grain — 

60 



They who on broken hopes have lain 
And slept and dreamt and, spent with ruth, 

Have wakened, searching life again. 
Who has glasses to see the Truth? 

Shake out great music as one may 

In symphonies of silver rain ; 
Yet may a song, a simple lay, 

Be greatly sung ; and wherefore strain 

To scale the mighty mountain chain 
Of epic peaks that have, in sooth, 

Risen in grandeur and remain? 
Who has glasses to see the Truth? 

Heavy may be the price to pay, 

Nor much of peace may one attain, 
To ease and lighten the long way, 

Who still of nothing would complain. 

Age is a wan moon on the wane, 
Seen through the eyes of passing youth. 

Even though life may be a stain, 
Who has glasses to see the Truth? 

Envoy. 

Prince, many warriors have been slain ; 

Beauty has felt the scarring tooth 
Of envy; and Pan pipes in vain. 

Who has glasses to see the Truth? 



61 



ADRIFT 

I have known perils such as haunt the sea, 
And perils of a land that has no name ; 
And foolish-wise have set a sail for fame, 

And all but drowned in sight of shores that flee. 

Thunders that shake the stars have shaken me ; 
And the great rollers that on Jason came 
Have broken my heart, with such acclaim 

As hell accords to spirits sailing free. 

I have gone down, come up — and now but drift, 
Awaiting something that may never come. 

Perhaps sometime the fickle wind will shift, 
And the storm die and leave me nearer home, 

Rafting the great seas as they roar along : 
God look for me afloat upon a song. 



A POET SHUTS THE BOOK OF DREAMS 

Great dreams of one great love 

Have all but made me 
Swear that the gods above 

Slept — and betrayed me. 

Dreams were once as the moon 

Sailing full-masted. 
Coming too late or soon, 

None of them lasted. 

62 



Dreams that have been a curse 

Have made me labor 
Never to be much worse 

Than a bad neighbor. 

Dreams that have slaughtered men 

Stifle my laughter. 
Who but has faltered when 

Dark dreams came after? 

I would be through with dreams; 

I would be saying, 
Sadly, that nothing seems 

To come of praying. 



63 



SEAS AND HORIZONS 



FOR 

The Folks at Swan Island 



The Skippers on the coast of Maine 
Are Something Else and Yet Again. 



ALOHA 

I know a little island 

Set in the summer sea, 
Wave-washed and green and mossy 

As green can be. 

Great joys are in the offing; 

And always day and night, 
Putting into the harbor, 

Is some delight. 

Around it sail great sorrows; 

So far it is from care 
That only fleets of laughter 

May anchor there. 

And only strong fair faces 

Pass always to and fro; 
As in a place enchanted 

They come and go. 

Once came a green sea-serpent, 

The island people say, 
And in their warmth of welcome 

Basked for a day. 

Basked — and with venom sweetened 
Fled from that holy ground, 

67 



Dyeing the seas with envy 
For miles around ; 

With envy of the people 
Who worship lovely things, 

Such as in eld were worshiped 
By queens and kings. 

Stay, lovely little island, 

Still in the summer sea, 
Wave-washed and green and mossy 

As green can be! 



A SHIP COMES IN 

Sailing so silently 
Sea after silver sea, 

Land ho! land ho! 
Lookouts report a sign, 
Sky-blue and azure fine, 
On the horizon line; 

Thunder below. 

Great winds are gaining way, 
Filled with blown spume and spray. 

Sing joy! sing joy! 
Guns in the tempest roar; 
Ships that rich cargoes bore 
Litter the ocean floor. 

Harbor ahoy! 

68 



LOON LAKE 

Wild geese that at Loon Lake 

I once saw flying, 
Why do you never cease 

Crying and crying? 

Why still patrol the skies, 
Shot but not dying, 

Wild geese that never cease 
Crying and crying? 

Lilied with memories, 

Tear-fed and sighing, 

Is Loon Lake. Oh wild geese 
Crying and crying! 



QUESTIONNAIRE 

I went into the woods to make a song, 
Wherewith to buy 
My love a gown. 

So sang a poet and lord of rhyme, 
Making the chimes of spring 
In autumn chime. 

I fled the woods and brought flower words along, 
Made of a sigh, 
Freshly to town. 

Fresh and wood-wild, they harbored something strange 
In every note, 
Something flower-shy. 

69 



Singing of beauty, careless of renown, 
Veiled in a cloud, to fling 
Silver rain down. 

Hushed is the song. Was it lacking in range? 
Such a remote 
Call of the sky? 

Or was it a lack — a lack of the town ? 
Something was wrong, 
With the town, or the song? 



TRAIN LOST 

"Too late," 

The Train Master said, 

"Gates closed for the Six-thirteen." 

So I wait for the Six-thirty-six. 

And my heart that was ticking too slow 

For the Six-thirteen, 

Ticks on for the Six-thirty-six ; 

Ticks on, 

Ticks on, 

Behind time . . . perhaps . . . slowing down. 

Tick, tick. 

Hush! 

Friend, 

Into the night 

Ahead, 

Who knows 

When the Last Train goes? 

70 



BEFORE THE PIXIES CAME TO AMERICA 

FOR 

Rupert Hughes 

Wisely this Play of Just Pretend 
Is Dedicated to a Friend. 



BEFORE THE PIXIES CAME TO AMERICA 

A Masque in Allegory 

Oberon. Titania. 

Robin Goodfellow. Moonlight. 

Sirenus. Raindrop. 

Fancy. Sunbeam. 

Jack Frost. Zephyr. 

Pixies, Fairies, Gnomes, Goblins, Elves. 

Scene: The Forest of Arden. 
Time : Midnight. 

The king and queen of the Little People are dis- 
covered before an open space, on canopied thrones of 
leaves and flowers. A wandering rivulet emerges, eddy- 
ing in the moonlight between the trees, as over running 
laughter. Robin Goodfellow approaches as 

Prologue. 

Now raise conjectural fancies of a time 

When Nature, worn with dark and feverous hours, 

Resumes her quiet restfulness. All air 

Is hushed, save that the sudden chanticleer 

Shrilly assails, across the meadow miles, 

Some neighboring countryside. The hemlocks muse, 

The drowsy alders sway; and trooping forth 

With Oberon and with Titania, 

73 



O'erskipping hills and intervening knolls, 
Approaching quietly these fays and gnomes, 
Goblins and pixies congregate as shapes 
And shadows of an idle fantasy. 
Antique, capricious, humorous and droll 
Embodied meanings, not unnatural 
About the forest, gather into view. 
And sowing visions in the fields of sleep, 
Under the moon, as now the spirits pass, 
Oblivion attends a weary world. 

Shapes in motley procession 
appear during the prologue 
and, after passing in review, 
disperse variously beneath the trees. 

Oberon. 

Aha! my leal, incony travelers, 
Come hither. 

All. 
Alderliefest Oberon. 

Oberon. 

As darkness deepens, and the azure veil 
Slips from the shoulders of the universe, 
Once more put up your filmy parasols 
Against the dew and starlight and the moon, 
O you that people dreams of happiness! 
And rendering your tardy reckonings, 
Softly from India and the Lebanons 

74 



And the tired lands where elfin angels soothe 

Misfortunes sighing over loneliness, 

Come stealing, trooping, rustling like the leaves, 

And be most welcome on the bosky slopes 

Of Arden. 

TlTANIA. 

Cool Arden, where all the elves 
Of Elfland summered in the days of yore, 
Ere the sweet Swan of Avon was last seen 
Sailing the seas of wonder! 

Sirenus. 

Ever since 
Has Summer wandered sadly down the world, 
As mourning over beautiful romance 
That is no more. The nights are empty now 
Of the shy foxfoot hours ; and hunters on 
The elfin hills of fancy far between. 

Fancy. 

Ah me, ah me! Since then! 

Oberon. 

Since then, truly, 
The hurrah of the world bewilders those 
Who shuffle oft' the burr of gravity 
In periodical ineptitude .... 
So be it that our jesters may tonight 
Take heart and hands, and may each gypsy sprite, 
Relating quaint adventures, toss a purse 
Of goblin money to the universe 

75 



Off yonder slumbering. The death of mirth 
Gave the dark rumor birth of grief on earth. 

All take hands, tripping mazy 
measures in the moonlight and, 
in the key of lisping leaves, 
chanting the lullaby: 

High and low, rocking slow, 
In their cradles airily, 
Rook and wren slumber when 
Over Arden warily 
We do wander down the night, 
To the left and to the right 
Wheeling O as we go 
Tripping onward faerily, 
While Time fiddles merrily. 

Robin Goodfellow. 

Canes and crutches! Pfl! A reeling measure 
For one so heavy. Tavern ingles? So. 

Oberon. 

A finger-length of immortality. 

Come hither, Fancy. Now while yonder owl 

Grows hoarse declaiming in the wilderness, 

Attend on us and tax your memory, 

Or tame the whistling coursers of the air, 

For swift conveyances to your provinces. 

Whither away, aerial wanderer? 

7 6 



Fancy. 

Mounting ahvays on some sky 
Voyage of discovery, 
As a falcon soars, to rule 
Quarries of the beautiful; 
Now on earth, then far away. 
Through the flaming gates of day, 
Into Paradise I dare 
Venture sailing ever bare, 
Wind-walled turrets of the air, 
Everywhere, everywhere. 

Tetania. 
Prithee, remember Lucifer. 

Oberon. 

And know 
Your utmost power — for they fall indeed 
Who dwell among the stars. Aha, Sunbeam. 

Sunbeam. 

On some oriental course, 
Drifting down the universe 
As a priest in summer bowers, 
Gaily marrying the flowers; 
Or awakening with mirth 
Blosso?ns dreaming in the earth; 
Ere dissolving to explore, 
Warmly, every apple-core, 
Marshaling the clouds I soar, 
Evermore, evermore. 

11 



Oberon. 

A most warm-hearted fellow, it would seem ; 
An arrant bee, a bumble bee. 

Robin Goodfellow. 

A cross 
Between red-haired Apollo and the imp 
That cheered and tickled Jove when Bacchus made 
Oblivion out of wine. Diana jumped 
Across the zodiac and fled before 
The reeling stars down Watling Street. 

Titania. 

No more, 

Robin, no more. Wee minion of the moon, 

Come this way. Whither have you all night long 

Wandered amid the starry wilderness? 

Moonlight. 

Melancholy j sweet and lone 
As a vision I have strown 
Silvery lilies on the grass, 
And seen wooing lad and lass 
Quickening the stars above 
Earth and sea with kisses of 
Passion and the Queen of Love. 

Oberon. 

Examine into this most carefully, 
Robin. Omit no detail, for the times 
Are dislocated certainly. 

78 



Robin Goodfellow. 

Ho, ho! 
No Mantuan swain need bawl for clemency 
Tomorrow. 

Oberon. 
Well said. 

Titania. 

Robin, you are fain 
To be a joy forever, if not quite 
A thing of beauty. 

Robin Goodfellow. 

Honestly in doubt 
And skeptical myself upon that point, 
Oh liege and very lovely sovereign ! 
I make a virtue of necessity, 
By using eloquence to blur my paunch, 
As homely mortals commonly affect 
Intelligence and mental gracefulness. 
In man or woman, to my biased mind, 
Much virtue is stupidity. 



And spoken frankly. 



Oberon. 

Quite true ; 



Robin Goodfellow. 

I have more to say, 
If it but pleases royalty to hear. 

79 



Oberon. 
Proceed. 

Robin Goodfellow. 

After much study of the world, 
And much applause for what is best therein, 
I find it lacking. Even to an elf 
With a blind eye, it is quite obvious 
That changes, constant progress, must be made 
By moles and men ambitious to survive; 
Else they become obstructions. 

Oberon. 

Whither tends 



Such talk? 



Robin Goodfellow. 



I prophesy democracy, 
And raise in proof thereof a spangled flag 
Woven of vision and the ancient dream 
Of work-worn and of woaded folk alike. 
What though it be the nightmare of a king! 
The hour is striking that will be the knell 
Of misinformed, imperious government 
On earth, in Fairyland, or in the stars. 

Oberon. 

What? Have a care! Sedition in an oaf 
Of lesser stature rashly had provoked 
A lengthy term of penal servitude, 
Or banishment. 

80 



Robin Goodfellow. 

And what means banishment, 
By despot or vainglorious emperor, 
Except to strip oneself of servitude, 
And sail for the new world ! 

Oberon. 

Go hence and learn 
Of graft accepted of hypocrisy, 
And spewed in gutters, as it is by men 
Who to the public trough repair and gorge 
Ad nauseam. Democracy is yet 
In embryo — a bold experiment, 
Subject to time. America too long 
Has been a vampire drawing from the world 
Its spirit and best blood. It must be leeched. 



Or visited. 



Robin Goodfellow. 

Oberon. 
Cease ! Hither, reveler. 

Raindrop. 

Every evening as each 
Of the children seems to reach 
Sleepytown almost, the fleet 
Rainy patterings of feet, 
In the summertime, aloof 
Over attics, furnish proof 
Of the fairies on the roof. 

8l 



Robin Goodfellow. 

Aha, ha! Rogues and rascals multiply 
As famously as mortals quarreling 
With Fortune. 

Titania. 

All of which shamefully deceives 
The Melancholy Bishop on the verge 
Of hospitality when summer showers 
Delay unwary travelers. 

Oberon. 

Sessa ! 
Cogs-wounds, enough! Assoil this icicle, 
Before his shadow freezes on the ground. 

Robin Goodfellow. 
Good-lack ! 

Oberon. 

Out, out ! Elbow the atmosphere, 
Robin, or study your nativity 
With extreme heedfulness. An patience proves 
A weary mare, your dignity may limp 
As painfully as modern pensioners 
Applying for a competence. In times 
Of peace are scars not coinable? Alas 
That honest men should of necessity 
So often be constrained to cool their heels 
In ante-rooms of upstarts. 

82 



Robin Goodfellow. 

Honesty, 
Of wide acquaintance, meets with villainous, 
Low, fat and greasy citizens among 
Corporeal multitudes. 

TlTANIA. 

Indeed? 

Robin Goodfellow. 

Indeed. 
Like gifted mortals I, I too, have sweat 
And striven anxiously to make a mark, 
And for my pains have thought myself a fool ; 
Hence my perspiring knowledge. 

Oberon. 

Ha, ha! Views 
That smack of observation and of some 
Experience and labor; but a most 
Threadbare philosophy. Hush, hush! A still, 
Small, rimy voice craves audience. 

Robin Goodfellow. 

Attend 
Upon this relic of antiquity, 
Displaying most reluctant eagerness, 
As though the rascal had already lied. 

83 



Jack Frost. 

A ppearing to mortal view 
A translated drop of dew, 
Soldering rebellious years 
Firmly as with frozen tears; 
Many evenings on the ricks, 
While the scheming stars plan tricks 
Overhead to trip the day, 
Boreas and Jack Frost lay 
Dreaming wintertime away. 

Oberon. 

As worthy children of Medusa or, 
Perhaps, some petrified metonymy 
Delivered shivering. Uncommon things 
Have been discredited before. 

Robin Goodfellow. 

The most 
Improbable seem most probable. 

TlTANIA. 

More 
Reverence, Goodfellow. Midnight ambles on 
Impetuously. 

Sunbeam. 

Aurora thaws the sun 
In arms more warmly amorous, and lays 
Her rosy ringers on the draperies 
Above the orient. 

8 4 



Oberon. 

Already now 
Is yonder chanticleer in readiness 
To call the sun. 



Robin Goodfellow. 

That braggart of the dawn, 
Peace-breaker, feathered timepiece, vain and loud 
Witness of misdirected energy, 
Needs managing. 



Titania. 

Away and fairly, 
Fairily follow Zephyr airily. 



Zephyr. 

Over hills and dales I go 
Hither j thither, to and fro; 
Even as a mystery 
In some wilderness of glee; 
Day and night distributing 
Breezy songs the twittering 
Choir folk of the forest sing. 



Titania. 
A gracious spirit, surely. 

85 



Oberon. 

Ariel 
Is at his tricks again, or very like 
Some imp of darkness is abroad. Nature 
Has ever been capricious as the air 
Consoling Mother Maudlin. 

Robin Goodfellow. 

Fickleness 
In virgins flaunts a virtue. 

Titania. 

Hold, sirrah! 
This is no time to quibble, nor to weigh 
The testimony of a bachelor. 
For yonder in the disappearing mist 
That lingers on the eastern balconies, 
Becoming warm and human as a rose, 
Venus is rising in the orient. 
The slumbering universe awakes. Day, day 
Is at the door. 

Oberon. 
Away! 

Titania. 

Away! 
86 



All. 

Away! 

As day breaks over the 
forest, the birds are 
heard singing, and, of 
a sudden, as in a broken 
spell, the spirits merge 
and vanish in the dawn. 



87 



VIEW-HALLOO 

What though in shining song, 

Silver be tendered? 

Golden though be the gong, 

What sound is rendered? 

Tolling for royalty, 

Ring in control, 

Order and loyalty 

Bronzed and American, 

Laughing, convivial, 

(Austere nor trivial), 

Singing the right 

As well as the wrong, 

In chorus with those who are vocal in kind 

And, gifted ivith vision or avid and blind, 

Are groping and searching in spirit to find 

That the life of the one is the life of the whole. 

True, 

Fellowman, 

You, 

In the van, 

May hear and see more of God and His plan 

Than one to whom nothing in truth is less clear 

To see and to hear. 

Yet America wakens, with Summer in sight 

And April in flower, 

Y ear after year, 

At the flowering hour, 

And calls in the caves that are darker than doubt, 

Darker with foemen within than without. 

88 



Slowly shaping a word 

To be heeded and heard 

And weighed by the world, 

Its spirit is curled 

And hooded to strike, 

With a passion of might 

And of mercy alike 

For that which is right, 

And against every crying injustice and wrong 

That may sadden a song. 

Whitman, as flower and flag, 

Emerson, soul, 

Toe, as the singing voice, 

Cheer on ahead, 

Bidding the oncoming legions rejoice. 

Need such a people in union to bragf 

All being said, 

They of the vision have surely to stand, 

Eyes on the goal, 

Till the little that leavens has leavened the whole 

Of this wonder land, 

So young and so old. 

Youth to be spent, and age to inherit 

A splendor of spirit 

That sooner or later 

Behold/ 

Shall bring a creator, 

An equal or greater 

Than Shakespeare to hand. 



8 9 



Here endeth the book entitled Candles in 
the Sun, the author whereof is William Grif- 
fith, Bookfellow No. 1179, and the printer 
whereof is Luther Albertus Brewer,, Bookfel- 
low No. 14. The candle on the title-page was 
drawn by Warren Wheelock, Bookfellow No. 
1512, and the lettering was done by Will Ran- 
som, Bookfellow No. 1500. Four hundred 
fifty copies of this first edition have been printed 
for the Bookfellows in the month of October, 

IQ2I. 



90 



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